The Eye of the Bedlam Bride — Chapter no 45

[ 45 ]

AND THEN, THERE HE WAS. RIGHT THERE IN THE LIVING ROOM.

“Holy shit,” I muttered.

It was him. My father. I hadn’t seen him in over twelve years, not since that day, and there he was.

There’s this scent one associates with their parents. You don’t even think about it until you’ve been away for so long, and it returns, towing unwelcome memories with it, shoving them at you all at once. That scent was here, burned into the thin walls. I don’t even know what that smell was. It was a strange, but subtle musk that only clung to him. It was here, in this trailer, but it wasn’t alone. It was faint, mixed with the antiseptic scent of a dying man.

He was in a hospital bed, which was parked right there in the middle of the room. There was nobody in here except him. There weren’t any monitors or diodes or anything I’d normally associate with someone in such a state, with the exception of a single IV bag that dangled off a pole attached to the bed. The saline bag was almost done, and the clear tube snaked into his arm.

The man was swallowed by that large bed. He was awake, back elevated, slitted eyes fixed on the television screen, which was showing a baseball game.

The room had obviously been recently rearranged for this setup. The couch was pushed all the way to the side up against an old, cheap entertainment console with the television facing the bed. A small dinette table was on its sides, legs folded in with four chairs stacked up against it near the refrigerator, to make room.

All the windows had purple curtains featuring that same flower upon them. Alliums.

My dad had always been a big guy, though I’d eventually grow to be much bigger than him. Still, when I remembered him, he was always huge,

larger than life. The silhouette outside on that stupid vending machine. Not this. Not this shell.

This is it? This is what I’ve been afraid of?

He was sick. He was dying. The man weighed maybe 140 pounds, easily 80 pounds lighter than he’d been at his prime. His hair, which he’d always dyed brown, was mostly gone, now just gray, sickly wisps upon his head. His skin had taken on a deep, yellow tone and was mottled with spots.

Twelve years. It looked as if it had been forty.

Still, the man was awake. Lucid, watching the television. It was a Seattle Mariners game, and they were playing Baltimore. It was the sixth inning, and Seattle was getting stomped. My father’s eyes darted back and forth as he watched. I’d seen that look so many times. His hand clutched onto the remote, curled in the same way he used to hold a bottle of beer as he watched. There were a row of bandaids on the back of his yellow hand. His skin looked almost translucent, somehow plastic, like it would crinkle if I touched it.

He hadn’t shaven in some time, and a patchy, bone-white beard had formed over his gaunt face.

“You pussy,” he said to the television screen. “You goddamn, worthless pussies. Pathetic.” He lifted the remote up and attempted to shut off the screen, but the remote slipped from his grip. He tried again, and this time he managed to shut it off. His hands shook.

He just sat there for a moment in the silence, breathing heavily.

Donut: CARL, ARE YOU OKAY?

Carl. Yes. Give me a few minutes.

I couldn’t look away. What had happened? How’d he get here to Iowa? I had so many questions.

“Are you just gonna sit there and stare at me, or are you gonna ask what

you wanna ask?”

I almost jumped from my skin.

But then, I saw who he was really talking to.

The small boy appeared, head emerging from around the hallway that led to the back bedrooms. Maybe six years old.

Goddamnit, I thought. God fucking damnit. I’d been holding out hope until that moment. But the instant I saw him, I knew. There were toys out there, in the yard. I was hoping maybe my father had met a woman who already had children.

But no. That nose. Those eyes. That hair. My mom always complained my dad’s genes were so dominant, anyone remotely related to him was doomed to look just like him. The boy took one hesitant step into the room, but he remained behind the hospital bed, hidden so my father couldn’t turn and look directly upon him. I couldn’t take my eyes off the boy. The poor kid looked as if he was going to bolt at any moment.

“You turned off the TV,” the boy said. “Can I watch now?”

“No. I need to rest. But go get me my cigarettes.”

The boy stood there, frozen.

Move, or I’ll make you move, boy.

“Move, or I’ll make you move, boy.”

“I… I don’t know where they are. Mommy took them. You’re not allowed.”

“Tell your mother I want to talk to her.”

“She went next door.”

“Go into my room. Open the bottom dresser drawer on the left. There’s a pack there. Bring it.”

The boy didn’t answer. He turned and ran away into the dark hallway.

“Asher! Get back here you little shit!”

Asher, I thought. His name is Asher.

Donut: A LADY JUST APPEARED OUT OF NOWHERE. SHE’S IN THE YARD. SHE WALKED THROUGH ME, AND HER CLOTHES DIDN’T GO AWAY. DO YOU THINK THAT’S WHAT THE WARNING MEANT? I THINK SHE’S WORKING ON THE FLOWER POTS, BUT I CAN’T TELL BECAUSE YOU TOOK THEM.

OTHER THAN THE CLOTHES THING IT’S JUST LIKE WITH THE REGULAR MEMORY GHOSTS. SHE WENT TO THE SHED AND GRABBED SOMETHING, AND NOW IT LOOKS LIKE SHE’S SCOOPING SOMETHING UP THAT ISN’T THERE.

Carl: Okay. Warn me when she moves toward the door.

Donut: SHE HAS A TATTOO OF A DOG ON HER NECK. A DOG TATTOO. ON HER NECK. I THINK IT’S A PITBULL. IT’S ABSOLUTELY SICKENING.

Carl: Be nice. I think that’s my stepmom.

Donut: SHE CAN’T BE YOUR STEPMOM, CARL. SHE’S LIKE KATIA’S AGE.

My hands shook as I took another step into the room. There was a curio

here, covered with Precious Moments figurines and a few framed photographs. I slowly started to gather everything except the photographs, which seemed wrong to take. There was also an urn, which I realized contained the remains of a dog named “Chance.” Likely the same dog who was tattooed on the woman’s neck. I took it.

Only two photos featured my father. One was a wedding. I stared at it.

Sure enough, the woman was younger, much younger, barely older than me, and she held hands with my father as they both laughed. My dad was in his full biker gear, complete with a bandana on his head and his leather vest. It appeared they were in some dive bar, surrounded by other biker guys.

I could see the neck tattoo in the photo. The woman was about-to-pop pregnant. She wore a crown of large, purple flower clusters in her hair.

Alliums.

The second photo was of my dad, staring forward with a one-year-old Asher on his lap. This was more like the man I remembered. Humorless, eyes a million miles away. Cold, uncaring.

There were multiple photos featuring just the boy. I picked one up, the most recent. Behind me, my father coughed, reminding me he was there, right there. I ignored him for the moment as I stared at the photograph.

Brown hair that looked like it was enough for two people. Thick and haphazard and untamable. Blue eyes. That nose.

Asher.

Asher.

My brother.

I had a brother.

Goddamn you, I thought.

Was that why they brought me here? To show me that they’d taken something I didn’t even know I had? To show me what I’d truly lost?

Donut: THE LADY IS ACTING WEIRD. SHE PULLED SOMETHING OUT OF ONE OF THE FLOWER POTS, BUT I CAN’T SEE IT BECAUSE YOU TOOK IT ALREADY. SHE’S HOLDING IT AGAINST HER CHEST AND CRYING.

I took the photo and placed it into my inventory. I turned and faced the man, who remained in the bed, sitting up, staring off into space.

Kids aren’t always a product of their parents. But sometimes that doesn’t matter. Sometimes parents can cast a shadow so thick, you can drown in it.

Frank had said that to me, right before he handed me the Ring of Divine

Suffering. He’d died soon thereafter.

“You know,” I said to the man who couldn’t hear me. “I used to be so scared of disappointing you, and I don’t even know why.”

Donut: SHE’S SMOKING A CIGARETTE NOW, PACING BACK AND FORTH. WAIT, SHE THREW IT AWAY AND IS NOW HEADED TOWARD THE DOOR!

Behind me, the door opened, and the woman walked in.

I blinked, staring at her. She was tall, thin. Hollow eyes. Uncombed, black hair dangled off her head. Nails that had once been painted red, but they were chipped and faded. She was wearing nurse scrubs. Nothing like the laughing, smiling woman in the wedding photograph.

She looked nothing like my mother, either. Yet… yet she was her twin all

the same.

“Where have you been? I need my boost.”

“I was next door helping Mrs. Tomlinson. I’ll get your medicine.”

The woman didn’t even look at him as she pushed past and went to the back, exuding the stench of cigarettes. She was holding something behind her back so he wouldn’t see. I couldn’t see it, either, as it was invisible to me, meaning whatever this was, I’d already taken it. The woman’s hands were shaking. She had tears rolling down her face.

“I’m your husband,” he tried to call, though he couldn’t truly shout, revealing how weak he really was. “I’m the one you’re supposed to be taking care of.” He coughed a few times and started muttering. From the hallway, I could hear the woman talking softly to Asher, telling him to stay in his room.

I moved into my inventory, and I started examining the flower pots I’d taken from the yard.

I understood, then, why they’d really brought me here, what they wanted me to witness.

Carl: Zev, is this even real? How long did it take you assholes to find this? How do you even have it? Did you just record everything?

Zev: I’m sorry, Carl. You know I can’t give you details. But I assure you everything you’ve seen so far is indeed a recording of what really happened that day. Everything until the timer reaches zero. I can’t tell you more than that.

I glanced at the timer. I stepped forward, and I leaned in, super close to the man’s face.

This close, the scent was amplified. A part of me registered I’d never

been this close to him, this close to his eyes, his mouth. How was that possible? He was my father. Shouldn’t my memory be filled with his face?

But no. This was it. The closest I’d ever been. It seemed important.

I moved to whisper into his ear.

“You’re a bully. Nobody likes you. Mom tried to kill you, and in about 20 minutes, I’m pretty sure your new wife, my stepmother, is going to finish the job. You’re so goddamn insufferable, she can’t even wait for whatever this is to kill you off. Two different women, and they both try to kill you? What does that say?”

He sat there, staring off into space. His death was so close, and he had no idea.

“And you know what? Your passing is so unimportant, so insignificant that nobody will care. The only reason I’m here now to watch this is because the idiots running this shitshow think I’m going to buckle under the pressure of seeing you, of finally confronting this big, bad monster from my childhood. But here’s the thing, old man. I’ve grown up. I’m not scared of shadows anymore. Not when I’ve seen what’s really out there. And seeing you here today, seeing you like this, it’s actually a good thing. You’re about to die. You’re broken, you’re alone, and you’re a nobody. My only regret is that you lived long enough to inflict yourself onto my poor brother. If I’m lucky, the assholes will resurrect your corpse and turn you into a boss so I can kill you again.”

I straightened my back, and I turned away, facing the back hallway.

“I’m not even going to stay for this last part. Not your real death. You don’t deserve for anybody to watch you die.”

The woman reappeared, holding a syringe and a new IV bag. “I have your

medicine right here.”

“It’s about time.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is.”

I moved to Ash’s room while my stepmother injected my father with a lethal dose of morphine.

I wasn’t sure exactly what the plan was, or why she’d been hiding the little glass bottles of morphine in the big flowerpot outside. That didn’t really matter.

I moved into the small room of the boy. He was curled up on his bed. He had a matchbox car, and he idly ran it up and down the wall.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t know about you,” I said. “If I had, I would’ve been here. I would’ve made sure you were okay. In a few months, something is going to happen, something really terrible. Hopefully you’ll be asleep in your bed when it happens. It’s too late for me to do anything about that, but I want you to know something. You won’t be forgotten. Not ever.”

I reached forward, and I put my hand on his head, but my hand went all the way through.

I wiped my eyes, and I proceeded to loot the room. He didn’t have much, just a few toys, a few pairs of pants and shirts. I found an old, heart-shaped candy box, and it had a shiny rock in it, two dollars, and a little plastic cowboy. Part of me was hoping there was a picture of me somewhere here, some sign that he knew he had a brother somewhere. There was nothing. I left the box with his prized possessions. I took the rest, including some crayon drawings, mostly of airplanes and storm clouds with lightning, destroying whole cities with their fury. I looked at the black swirls of crayon.

He's scared of lightning. Of storms.

As I finished, the woman came into the room.

“Come here, Ash,” she said to the boy, and she took him into a hug as she sat on the bed.

“He wouldn’t let me watch TV,” my brother said.

“It’s okay. He’s resting now. You just stay with me for a few minutes, and then you’re going to go over to Mrs. Tomlinson’s house. You can go play with Elizabeth, and tomorrow we’re having your birthday party.”

“Am I going to get a bike? And cake?”

She smiled big, tears rolling down her face. “We’ll see, honey.”

With five minutes left, I moved to the master bedroom, not wanting to eavesdrop anymore. While I was in there, I proceeded to take everything I could. From the living room, I could hear my father say something, desperation in his raspy, slurred voice. Nobody was there to answer him, nobody there to hear his final words.

The first thing I did was move to the bottom left drawer of the old dresser. I took three packs of Marlboro Reds. I picked up a folder filled with

court documents. I took it without looking at it. He also had a 9mm Glock, which I took along with two boxes of ammo. I also found the keys to the motorcycle and the Ford truck. After that, I just picked up the whole dresser with mirror, and I took it all into my inventory. I took the queen bed, the cheap bedside tables, all the clothes. There were more photos on the walls, mostly of Asher, and I left those, but I took everything else. He’d only had the single gun.

There was also an arcade cabinet, sitting right there in the too-small room, taking up too much space. It was unplugged and had clothes draped over it. It wasn’t Frogger, but Centipede. I took it into my inventory.

That was it. I had his gun, his motorcycle, and his goddamned arcade cabinet. The only other thing he had left was his life, and that, too, would soon be gone.

With just a minute left, I took out a cigarette and lit it. I returned to the living room, moving past my motionless father. I paused, not looking at him.

I took my lighter, and I lit the drapes with the purple flowers on fire.

I paused, and I looked up at the ceiling.

“If your intention was to hurt me, you fucked it all up. This was pretty much exactly what I needed to see.”

I returned outside to find Donut sitting upon Mongo, waiting patiently.

“Are you okay?” Donut asked.

The timer has concluded. You may now proceed inside to face the

keyholder.

I cracked my neck. “I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“I said yes, Donut.”

“Good. That means I can tell you to get that disgusting cigarette out of

your mouth.”

I laughed as Mongo screeched.

“Just give me a second, okay?”

She looked suspiciously at the door. “Do you know what we’re going to face in there?”

“No,” I said. “But I do know what we’re not going to face.”

I sighed, and I tossed the cigarette away. It tasted old, and it tasted wrong.

The window cracked, and flames burst out, reaching out into the sky, black smoke billowing upward and away into heavens that weren’t really there.

“And we’re not going to do it in there. It’s way too cramped for our totems, so first we’re going to watch this goddamned trailer burn to the ground.”